Jessie stood in front of her closet, the morning light from the apartment window cutting a pale rectangle across the carpet. Stacey was still in bed, curled under the sheet, her breathing slow and even. The promise sat in Jessie's chest like a stone she'd swallowed—the week away, the woods, the chance to just be two girls who remembered how to laugh.

She pulled out a jean skirt she hadn't worn since college. It was short. Embarrassingly short, the hem riding high on her thighs when she held it up. She found a crop top in the back of her drawer, white with thin spaghetti straps, the kind of thing she'd bought on clearance and never worn because it showed too much skin.

In the bathroom, she twisted her hair into a high ponytail, then let it fall loose again. She grabbed her makeup bag and went to work—eyeliner thick and unsteady, blush too pink, lipstick applied heavy and smudged at the edges. She looked like a girl who'd raided her older sister's makeup drawer. A girl who wanted to look older and only looked younger.

She studied herself in the mirror. The girl who stared back was a stranger, but a familiar one—the version of herself she'd imagined in high school, the one who'd sneak out to parties she was never invited to. Innocent, but reaching for something she didn't understand yet.

"Tyler," she whispered to her reflection. The name felt strange on her tongue, a key she was learning to turn. "I'll do anything for a week off."

The words hung in the steamy air. She held her own gaze, trying to find the girl who could say that and mean it.

She grabbed her purse and slipped out of the apartment before Stacey stirred, the door clicking shut behind her like a period at the end of a sentence she wasn't ready to finish. The bus ride to the office was a blur of strip malls and palm trees, her reflection in the window a ghost with too much lipstick and not enough courage.

Steve's building smelled the same as always—coffee, leather, the faint ghost of cigar smoke. The receptionist barely looked up as Jessie passed, and she was grateful for the invisibility. She took the stairs instead of the elevator, her heels clicking against the concrete, each step a countdown.

His door was open. She paused in the threshold, letting him see her first.

Steve looked up from his laptop, and something shifted in his face. Not surprise—he was too controlled for that—but a flicker of recognition, like he'd been expecting a different version of her and was pleased to find this one instead. His eyes traveled down her body slowly, deliberately, the way a man reads a contract before signing.

"Well," he said, leaning back in his chair. The leather creaked. "Good morning, Jessie."

She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. The click of the latch was louder than she expected.

"Morning, Tyler."

His eyebrow lifted. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, not quite arriving. "Is that how we're starting today?"

She crossed the room, her bare thighs brushing together under the too-short skirt. She'd left her cardigan at home. No jacket. Nothing to hide behind. She stopped in front of his desk and let her hands fall to her sides, palms open.

"I need something," she said. "A favor."

"I'm listening."

"A week off. Stacey and I—" She wet her lips, the lipstick tacky on her tongue. "We need to get out of the city. Just for a week. Somewhere quiet."

Steve's hands rested on the arm of his chair, fingers drumming once, twice. "That's a big ask. You've been here less than two months."

"I know."

"And you're already one of my best closers. I'd hate to lose momentum."

She met his eyes. Held them. "I'll do anything."

The silence stretched. The clock on his desk ticked. Somewhere in the building, a phone rang and was answered.

"Anything?" Steve repeated, and the word hung in the air between them, heavy and electric.

Jessie's heart hammered against her ribs, but she kept her voice steady. "Anything."

He studied her for a long moment, and she could see him reading her—the heavy makeup, the crop top, the skirt that barely qualified as clothing. The costume she'd put on. The girl she was trying to become.

"Come here," he said.

She walked around the desk, her heels clicking on the hardwood. He swiveled his chair to face her, and she stopped between his knees, close enough to smell his cologne, the coffee on his breath.

He didn't touch her. He just looked up, his brown eyes patient and warm, the way a teacher looks at a student who's about to give the right answer.

"You want a week off," he said. "And you're offering anything."

"Yes."

"Then show me what anything looks like."

She held his gaze for a breath, two. Then she sank to her knees on the carpet, the fabric rough against her bare skin. Her hands found his belt, worked the buckle loose, her fingers steady despite the tremor in her chest. She pulled his cock out—already half-hard, thickening as she touched him—and she didn't look away from his face.

"Like this," she said, and took him into her mouth.

He was warm against her tongue, the taste of him familiar now, a taste she'd learned. She sank down, taking him deeper, her hand wrapped around the base of his shaft. She heard him exhale, a low sound that might have been surprise or satisfaction, and she worked him with her mouth the way he'd taught her—slow at first, then faster, her tongue tracing the vein along the underside.

His hand found her hair, not gripping, just resting there, a quiet acknowledgment. She looked up at him through her lashes, the heavy eyeliner making her eyes feel darker, older, and she saw the way he watched her—not with hunger, not with urgency, but with something like pride.

She took him deeper, let him feel her throat relax around him, and his hand tightened in her hair.

"Fuck, Jessie."

She didn't stop. She found a rhythm, her lips tight around him, her tongue working the sensitive ridge beneath the head. She could feel him throbbing against her tongue, could feel the tension building in his thighs, and she wanted it—wanted to feel him come apart because of her, wanted to prove she could do this, wanted to earn the week away with her body the only way she knew how anymore.

His hips lifted off the chair, a small involuntary thrust, and she took him deeper, let him feel the back of her throat. His grip on her hair tightened, and he came with a low groan, his cum hot and thick in her mouth, and she swallowed around him, kept her mouth on him until he softened, until his hand relaxed in her hair.

She pulled back slowly, her lips slick, and looked up at him.

He was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling under his tailored shirt. His eyes were dark, satisfied, and something else—something softer that she couldn't name.

"Good girl," he said, his voice rough. "Stand up."

She rose, her knees aching from the carpet, and he reached for her, pulling her into his lap. She straddled him, the short skirt riding up her thighs, and he kissed her—deep and slow, tasting himself on her lips. His hand found her chest, palm flat against her sternum, and he pressed her close.

"You didn't have to do that," he said against her mouth. "I would have given you the week off anyway."

She pulled back, searching his face. "What?"

"You're my best closer. You just landed Victor Castellano. You've earned a break." He smiled, that slow, easy smile that made her feel like she was in on a joke she didn't quite understand. "But I love the initiative."

She stared at him, the words settling in her chest like stones. She'd dropped to her knees for nothing. She'd sucked his cock for a week he would have given her anyway.

And she didn't regret it.

She kissed him again, harder this time, her hand sliding to the back of his neck. "I would have done it anyway," she said, her voice low. "Even if you'd said no."

His hand found her chin, tilted her face up. "I know."

She climbed off his lap, her legs unsteady. His cum was cooling on her tongue, a familiar taste now, and she felt a strange, quiet pride in that—in how far she'd come from the girl who'd never been kissed.

"I need to change," she said, gesturing at her crop top. "I have cum on my—"

"Use my closet." He gestured at the door behind his desk. "There's a spare shirt in there. Blue button-down. It'll be big on you."

She walked to the closet, aware of his eyes on her, and she paused at the door. She looked over her shoulder, caught his gaze, and deliberately stuck her ass out as she reached for the handle, the short skirt riding up to expose the curve of her hip.

The slap came before she expected it—his palm flat against her right cheek, sharp and warm. She gasped, a sound that was half surprise, half something else, and she heard him chuckle behind her.

"Don't start something you can't finish," he said, his voice amused. "You have a week off. Go enjoy the woods."

She turned, the shirt in her hands, and found him watching her with that patient, knowing look. She didn't bother hiding her smile.

"Thank you, Tyler."

"You're welcome, Jessie."

She changed in the closet, pulling off the crop top and wiping the smear of cum from her chest with a tissue from his desk. The blue button-down was soft and smelled like him, and it hung loose on her shoulders, the sleeves falling past her wrists. She rolled them up, left the top two buttons undone, and stepped back into the office.

Steve was at his laptop again, typing. He looked up as she emerged, and his eyes softened.

"That's a good look on you."

She felt heat rise to her cheeks. "It's your shirt."

"I know."

She grabbed her purse, the crop top balled in her hand, and paused at the door. "I'll see you in a week."

"You will." He leaned back, his fingers steepled. "And Jessie?"

She turned.

"Enjoy being the girl who did that for nothing."

The words hit her like a splash of cold water, but she didn't flinch. She met his gaze, held it, and smiled—a slow, knowing smile that she was still learning to wear.

"I will."

She walked out of his office, the door clicking shut behind her, and she felt the weight of the week ahead settle over her like a second skin. The woods. Stacey. A week of being just two girls who remembered how to laugh.

She didn't know if she could still be that girl. But she was going to try.

The elevator doors slid open onto the lobby, and Jessie stepped out into the sterile brightness of the building's ground floor. Her reflection slid across the polished marble walls—a girl in a man's blue button-down, her hair still holding the shape of the ponytail she'd abandoned, her makeup already starting to feel heavy and foreign on her skin.

She pulled her phone from her purse. Three texts from Stacey, the first one sent an hour ago.

You left without saying goodbye.

Did you do it?

Jessie. Answer your phone.

She typed back quickly, her thumbs moving before she could second-guess the words: Got the week. Coming home.

The reply came before she reached the revolving door: I'll be waiting.

The bus ride home was different than the one to the office. The sun had climbed higher, hotter, and the air conditioning wheezed against the desert heat. Jessie sat by the window, the blue button-down soft against her skin, and she caught her reflection in the glass—a stranger with Steve's cum drying on her chest beneath borrowed fabric, a girl who'd dropped to her knees for nothing and meant it anyway.

She pressed her forehead to the cool glass and let her eyes close. The taste of him was still there, faint and familiar. She didn't try to swallow it away.

The apartment door was unlocked. She pushed it open to find Stacey on the couch, still in her pajamas—an old tank top and shorts, her brown hair mussed from sleep. She looked up the moment Jessie walked in, her brown eyes scanning her from head to toe, stopping at the blue button-down.

"Whose shirt is that?"

Jessie closed the door behind her. "Steve's."

Stacey's jaw tightened. "What happened?"

Jessie crossed the room and sat on the edge of the coffee table, facing her. The words came out flat, practiced, like she was reading a report. "I went to his office dressed like a high schooler trying to get into a party. I called him Tyler. I told him I'd do anything for a week off. He asked me to show him what anything looked like. So I got on my knees and sucked his cock until he came on my tits."

Stacey's expression didn't change, but her hands stilled in her lap. "And he gave you the week?"

"He said he would have given it to me anyway. That I'd earned it." Jessie let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "He said he loved the initiative."

Stacey was quiet for a long moment. Then she reached out and took Jessie's hand, her fingers warm and steady. "And how do you feel about that?"

Jessie looked down at their joined hands. Stacey's nails were unpainted, short, practical. A hand that held a steering wheel and a phone and, once, Jessie's face in the back seat of a Honda.

"I don't know," she said. "I think I'm proud of myself. I think I'm ashamed of being proud. I think I'm not sure there's a difference anymore."

Stacey squeezed her hand. "That's a lot of thinks."

"Yeah." Jessie looked up, met her eyes. "But we have a week to figure it out."

Stacey's face broke into a smile—slow, uncertain, but real. "A week in the woods."

"A week in the woods."

"Just us."

Stacey stood, pulling Jessie to her feet. She was shorter, curvier, her body warm where it pressed against Jessie's. She reached up and touched the collar of the blue button-down, her fingers grazing Jessie's collarbone.

"First thing," Stacey said, "we're getting you out of his shirt."

Jessie felt something loosen in her chest. "Okay."

"Second thing," Stacey continued, her hand sliding to Jessie's waist, "we're packing. And third thing—" She stepped closer, her lips brushing Jessie's ear. "We're not coming back until we've forgotten what city we live in."

Jessie's arms found their way around Stacey's waist, pulling her close. The borrowed shirt bunched between them. "That sounds perfect."

Stacey pulled back, her eyes scanning Jessie's face. "You sure you're okay? Really?"

Jessie thought about the weight of the question. The taste of Steve still on her tongue. The bruise on her throat from Derek, faded now to a greenish-yellow she could almost hide. The way her knees still ached from the carpet. The way she'd told Steve she would have done it anyway, and meant it.

"I will be," she said. "Give me a week."

Stacey nodded, and something passed between them—an understanding that didn't need words. She took Jessie's hand and led her toward the bedroom, where a duffel bag lay open on the floor, waiting.

Jessie stopped at the threshold, looking back at the apartment. The couch where she and Stacey had kissed. The kitchen where they'd made coffee the morning after. The door she'd walked through a hundred times as a different girl.

She didn't know if that girl was gone forever. But she was learning to live without her.

"Hey," Stacey said from the bedroom. "You coming?"

Jessie turned. "Yeah."

She stepped through the door, leaving the blue button-down on the bedroom floor, and started packing for the woods.